


Just What We Need

by TellNearaToWrite



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Asexual Sherlock, Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Mildly Dubious Consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-29
Updated: 2012-09-29
Packaged: 2017-11-15 06:03:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/523945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TellNearaToWrite/pseuds/TellNearaToWrite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If he tried very hard, he was sure he’d be able to understand. His brain needed to work, couldn’t fail him in this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just What We Need

“How—”  
  
It was John. Nice John, gentle John, would never ever hurt him John. John who knew what he was thinking before he could say it, who understood him when he couldn’t decide how he felt, who wanted to help him. John. But his thoughts were too fast, and his lips had formed that single treacherous word before he could stop them.  
  
John stilled, their bodies pressed together, and John waited for the ready tumble of more words, but he couldn’t, no no. So he remained silent and he trembled. John waited longer, and there was a twitching in uncomfortable, frozen muscles, so John leaned, and he made a small sound, because they were so _close_ and so together, and how—he trembled harder.  
  
“Sherlock?” John’s voice was quiet—was it curiosity? Concern? Exasperation? Must be that. This was something John wanted, something John needed, and John was putting it aside just to talk to him. Of course John was exasperated, with their bodies so close, with John _inside_ but staying still. Exasperated.  
  
“It’s nothing.” And he tried to push at John’s hips, but John didn’t respond beyond a rumpling of eyebrows and a deep, wearied sigh.  
  
“Sherlock.” He couldn’t be sure, but that sounded like tired worry, and John definitely shouldn’t sound like that. He tried shifting his own hips, trying to be enticing. John groaned softly, but slipped an arm around his back, pulling them closer—could they be closer? It didn’t seem possible, it shouldn’t be, shouldn’t—before he was pressed down, John’s body heavy and comfortable and warm and—“Sherlock? What’s wrong?” And their faces were separated by just a breath of space, and he could see it, that emotion, and he was sure of it. It was concern, not exasperation, but whywhy _why_.  
  
“Nothing.” Oh, that, that was why. John could hear the sharp note of hysteria in his voice. He hadn’t realized it was there, had just thought it was a sound lost in the echo of his desperate thoughts as they milled through his mind. He tried again. “Nothing. Please, we—” John’s lips descended and the kiss was soft, questioning. Of course. He didn’t say _please,_ he didn’t beg like that. Stupid. John could hear the hard edge of fear in his words, because he wasn’t supposed to talk about—  
  
“Tell me,” John coaxed, one hand at his hip, the other traveling up and up to stroke through his hair. If he tried very hard, he could almost focus only on John’s hand in his hair, and not on—  
  
“How can people enjoy _it?”_ John went absolutely still. He shouldn’t have said that, and his voice was small and lost, about to cave in on itself, because John wasn’t supposed to hear that, and John wouldn’t be able to—  
  
John cursed. Their bodies came apart with a quick jolt and he made a small sound of shock, the heavy pressure blissfully gone from within his body. He could feel his brain start working again, sluggish yet insistent, but this was all wrong wrong wrong. John was never supposed to hear anything at all. John was supposed to enjoy the one thing he should have been able to offer that was normal. He'd somehow managed to do that wrong. How could he expect John to stay now? What else could there be for him to offer? He wasn’t a nice person or a good person. He had his brain and precious little else to give.  
  
He drew in a ragged breath as their bodies pressed back together, the return of that hateful proximity. He squeezed his eyes shut and waited and waited for—there was a hesitant hand on his cheek, thumb tracing his cheekbone gently. This...this was John. Gentle John, nice John. John who did not want to hurt him. John who had a radiant heart and so much to give.  
  
“I am so sorry, Sherlock. I didn’t know.” Those were John’s lips just brushing the hollow of his cheek with guilty whispers. But why guilty? John should not be guilty. Absolutely not. He tried to gather some semblance of his normal self—painfully truthful and rude with it. He should be able to do that. He needed to say this was not John’s fault, give that little bit of truth. When he opened his mouth, he wasn’t sure what sounds came out, but John’s hand froze and cupped his cheek. There was the soft pressure of their lips together, something sweet and sorrowful and and...his brain stuttered for the word. How useless. He couldn’t find it.  
  
His mouth formed words and his voice sighed them between John’s lips. “John...” John’s arm tightened around him, renewing the absolute press of their bodies, so intimate from head to toes, but lacking in the stomach turning slide of one body into another. There was a heavy feeling in his chest. Could he have this without that one sickening connection of their bodies?  
  
“...tell me,” John was saying, and how could he have missed any of the words that voice had said? Too wrapped up in thinking. He finally opened his eyes to find John staring down at him, John’s eyes filled with something tender, something wistful, something saturated in hope. “Please, just tell me if I’m doing something wrong, Sherlock. Just tell me. I can’t do something like that to you again. Please tell me.” John repeated those words over and over, eyes staring intently, until finally, finally there was something there in his eyes, something John was looking for. He felt lips on his forehead, across the bridge of his nose, brushing across his cheeks, so achingly perfect. And yet...  
  
“I don’t...understand.” The admission made him feel hollow. He should know what that look in John’s eyes was. How could he not? He needed to know.  
  
John’s head rested on his shoulder comfortably. “That’s not what we’re about, Sherlock. We don’t need it.” And John just held him. If he tried very hard, he was sure he’d be able to understand. His brain needed to work, couldn’t fail him in this. He could lose himself to the thought process and maybe, just maybe, he’d be able to understand—“I love you.”


End file.
